


Oh How My Blood Boils for the Sweet Taste of You

by bonerthatiusedtoknow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonerthatiusedtoknow/pseuds/bonerthatiusedtoknow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe they should. Talk about it, that is. Sam palms at the swell in his jeans idly and thinks that it probably isn't normal to pop boners while watching your big brother suck at some girl's tits. It probably isn't normal for the aforementioned brother to get off on that fact either. But there isn't a whole lot about their lives that<em> is</em> normal, so Sam doesn't stress about it too much. (In which Sam's a voyeur and Dean likes it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh How My Blood Boils for the Sweet Taste of You

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea how this happened. My first wincesty fic so I hope that I didn't fuck it up too badly. I typed this up on my phone so I apologize for any and all errors that I missed when I read over this I don't have computer right now but I'll fix it up when I get a chance.

They don't talk about it. Not in the first and second rules of Fight Club kind of way, or the typical emotionally stunted way Dean avoids any and all conversation with a little depth like the plague: ignore it long enough and maybe it'll go away. It's just this mutual understanding between them that's always been there, no reason to talk about it.

Dean grins and shoots a less than subtle thumbs up at him as he pulls the curtains closed over the motel window. The brunette is perched prettily—and very naked—at the edge of the bed when Dean turns his attention back to her, she's either extremely unobservant or unconcerned; Sam believes it's the former and snorts at Dean's complete lack of tact—how they're even related is a mystery—but doesn't let his eyes stray from the pair he can see clearly from the crack in the curtains that Dean's left so very thoughtfully for him.

Maybe they should. Talk about it, that is. Sam palms at the swell in his jeans idly and thinks that it probably isn't normal to pop boners while watching your big brother suck at some girl's tits. It probably isn't normal for the aforementioned brother to get off on that fact either. But there isn't a whole lot about their lives that _is_ normal, so Sam doesn't stress about it too much. Especially now that it's just getting down to the good stuff.

Dean has her all spread out for him. Long legs splayed open to make room for his shoulders, held down by his strong hands—big and firm on her thighs—as she writhes on his tongue. Sam can't see well enough to be sure about the details, but he knows his brother's mouth. How his lips are plush and full and made for such filthy, filthy things with a quick, slick tongue to add icing to the cake. And he knows that Dean's driving her insane, giving it to her so good just like this. Her lips are moving, maybe pleading, maybe calling his name between curses, maybe not forming words at all, just sounds because her brain can't function enough at this moment for more than syllables. The cheap sheets pull tight and bunch in her fists. She'll come first before Dean fucks her, Sam knows it, knows how Dean wants her all slick and sweet for him. How Dean likes the taste of her on his tongue and—fuck.

A sharp breath hisses out of Sam's mouth as he pops the button on his jeans to relieve some pressure, lets the snick snick snick of his zipper fill the silence in the car. The girl arches up off the mattress in a perfect semicircle, her legs shaking, pelvis bucking against Dean's grip in a way that makes Sam a little envious of the both of them.

Dean's sliding up her body, mouth dragging over sweat-glistened skin. He has that look on his face— all smug satisfaction and wicked promises—and Sam can almost hear the words he's mouthing into her collarbone, 'gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart's and 'so perfect for me, darling's. She's eating them up, of course she is, Sam can see the dazed look on her face from the parking lot. Like she can't decide if this is real life or some fantastic dream she never wants to wake up from. Dean's hands are all over her, touching her like something precious, something necessary; they must be setting her skin on fire, burning her up with want. Sam can sympathize with that. Only, she can have this, she can have him. It's a point Dean proves all to well when he positions himself between those tanned thighs and drives into her. Her fingernails dig into his back hard enough to look painful. He's fucking loving it too, all that tight, wet heat around him, pinpricks of pain to heighten the experience, kinky bastard.

Sam can almost feel it, _fuck_ ; he wants to wait a little longer, resist until Dean's in the home stretch because he knows once he puts his hand anywhere near his dick he's going to last an embarrassingly short amount of time. But he's so hard he can barely breathe, like there just isn't any room for air in his body past his blood pulsing through him and this feeling. Breathing is very important and Dean has wrapped an arm around the small of the girl's back and flipped them like she barely weighs more than a feather, and really, Sam can't be expected to hold off given these very indisputable truths. He's a genius, not a goddamned monk. A bead of pre-come pearls at his slit and dribbles down the head of his cock, a cry for attention.

She's riding him now, bouncing on his cock like it's her life long dream come true—Sam can't really fault her there. Her breasts aren't jaw dropping or anything, but they're tipped with rosy pink nipples, and bob and sway in a captivating dance as Dean jerks her down on his cock. Sam catches the pre-come on the pad of his thumb and uses it to slick the way as he wraps his hand around his dick and matches Dean stroke for stroke.

It's not nearly slick enough, but much longer like this and Sam'll be dripping. So wet, wet like a girl, Dean'd say, so fucking wet for me, Sammy. Sam tightens his grip on his cock, jerking rough and fast. Dean has never touched him, would never, but he imagines this is how he would do it. Right on the verge of being painful without ever crossing that line because Dean likes to push, believes in tough love but still wants to hand his little brother the fucking world gifted wrapped. God it's good, it's so good and his eyes keep trying to close, he almost lets them but he doesn't want to miss a millisecond of this.

Dean's got her on her hands and knees towards the foot of the bed, slowly but surely Sam's changing his opinion of her breasts, because right now, apart from Dean, the way they swing and bounce to the rhythm he's set is the most fantastic thing Sam's ever seen. And Dean, that wonderful asshole, has them turned just enough for Sam to see his cock disappear inside her, to see his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, to see the tips of his ears tint pink with his blush, and the gleam of sweat trickling down his spine. Dean's so close to losing it, he can tell in how tight his body is drawn and the smooth roll of his hips reduced to jerky twitches. And Sam's so ready, so fucking—

Dean's eyes flick up, looking right through the gap in the curtains, piercing the Impala's windshield, until they're on Sam's. Dean's looking right at him and Sam can't do anything but hold his stare and wait because his whole world has been put on hold and replaced with _DeanDeanDean._

His hips buck forward, fuck into her like a man possessed but his eyes are on Sam. His eyes are on Sam and god damn it, he's never done this before and Sam can't fucking think or move or breathe he needs to come so badly, only he can't. Something's missing and he doesn't know how that could possibly be when he's getting more now than he's ever had. Then Dean's knuckles whiten with his grip on her, his hips snap forward and his head falls back as he comes with his eyes fixed firmly on Sam and his mouth shaping something that looks far too much like 'Sammy' for Sam's peace of mind. It's like a switch is flipped and suddenly he's shooting in his fist, all over himself like he's twelve years old again; he doesn't even care. He wipes himself off on a stray sock that's probably Dean's, and melts back into seat with bones made of jelly. His brother's satisfied smirk doesn't go unnoticed.

Later when the girl has dressed and gone—scowled in his direction when she noticed his presence right outside the window and what that might suggest—and Sam reclaims power over his knees, he grabs both of their duffles from the trunk and makes use of the second queen. The lights are already off and it's too much work to shower; Sam can already feel his eyelids drooping closed moments later.

"So, was it good for you?" He's almost able to hear the smirk in Dean's voice, but they don't do this. They don't talk about this.

"Try'na sleep, jerk." He peeps one eye open, anyway.

"Bitch." Dean flings an arm over his eyes, and Sam thinks that's it, that he won't say anything else—is counting on it. He's in that realm somewhere between sleep and wakefulness when his brother's voice once again crashes through the silence.

"Was gonna just come back and order a pizza. Almost didn't leave with her," the sheets rustle with his shrug, "just wasn't really in the mood."

Against his better judgement, Sam asks,"What changed your mind?"

A long pause and then, "Her name's Samantha, her friends call her Sam. Ain't that something, Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean. Yeah, that's something."


End file.
